


Forged Link

by Xenobotanist



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Feels, Discussion of Genocide, Emotional Roller Coaster, Heavy Petting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenobotanist/pseuds/Xenobotanist
Summary: The reason why Garak only got sentenced to 6 months on Deep Space Nine when he tried to destroy the Founder's homeworld.A missing scene from "Broken Link."
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 14
Kudos: 54





	Forged Link

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure where I intended to go with this. It's just something that bounced around in my head and wouldn't go away until I typed it out. Not really beta'd.

Julian stormed through the door. “Garak, what the _hell_ were you thinking?”

The brooding Cardassian hastily stood up from his seat on the bunk, straightening his tunic. “I’ve had a great many thoughts, Doctor. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Julian strode over to glare at him face to face. “Destroying the Founder’s homeworld? Genocide? Garak, you can’t just wipe out an entire race!”

Garak raised his chin defiantly, his chest out. “Indeed I can. And I would have, if Worf hadn’t stopped me. I would have thought a _Klingon_ would understand and appreciate the necessity of decisive action.”

Julian pierced his eyes with his own, trying to understand, to decipher, to get a bloody clue what was going on in that Cardassian brain. Garak met his gaze steadily, daring him to continue. They were mere centimeters apart, close enough to perceive every imperfection and twitch. 

Julian averted his eyes first.

“Why,” he breathed out. “Why did you feel the need to do this? Why couldn’t you have talked this out-”

Garak cut him off. “I _did_ try to talk to them. The Founder wouldn’t hear of it. She told me I’m dead, Doctor. That my people are dead. My planet. Dead. And I don’t know about you, but _I’d_ rather it be them than me.” He leaned in just slightly, forward on his toes. “And it would have been _so easy_ , too. All of them in one place. At one time. Just… poof! A scourge of the galaxy, gone in an instant.” He stepped to the side, trying to get Julian to look at him, and lowered his voice to a fierce whisper. “Imagine it, will you? No more Dominion War. No more Jem’Hadar, or Vorta, or lost lives. Just ours. A handful of officers and an exiled tailor, for the safety of the rest of the Alpha Quadrant. Tell me that wouldn’t be worth it.”

Julian stammered, avoiding his eyes. He raised his hand and dropped it before turning away. “That’s not how it works, Garak. You can’t just-” he gestured vaguely at nothing. The bulkhead was gray and bare, but it was easier to face right now than his… his what? Friend? Lunch companion? What were they even? And did it matter, now that Garak had almost succeeded in getting them both killed? 

“I can’t just _what_ , exactly?” Garak pushed.

“You can’t just decide who lives and who dies. It makes you as bad as them. That’s why we’re fighting in the first place-”

“No, Doctor, that’s why _you’re_ fighting. I’m just trying to save my countrymen. And _yours_ as well, if you take a moment to realize it. _Someone_ has to make the hard choices. _Someone_ has to be willing to say, ‘This ends _here! Now!’_ And that someone was me. Yes, I would have obliterated every last changeling in existence. Yes, it would have resulted in your death, and Captain Sisko’s. And mine and everyone on this ship. But would it have put an end to this madness?” Garak strode up behind Julian, practically against his shoulder. “Likely _also_ yes! So tell me, Mr. Federation Starfleet Medical Officer, who is the hero? The one who lets the aggressors, the ‘bad guys,’ continue to terrorize, conquer, and destroy planet after planet, or the one who makes them just _disappear_ , and drop the number of future casualties from billions, from trillions, down to _zero_?”

Julian whirled around, unaware of how close they’d been standing. His elbow jabbed into Garak’s abdomen, causing the Cardassian to double over in pain and grab his stomach.

“Oh! Garak, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

The tailor held up his other hand to forestall any apology. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”

Flipping over into doctor mode, Julian frowned at the wincing man. “You look like you’re really in pain. I didn’t think I hit you _that_ hard…”

“And you didn’t. Worf and I… had a minor tussle.” Garak straightened up, his grimace blinking away back into calm neutrality. “Nothing to worry about, really. Now. As I was saying-”

This time it was Julian who interrupted. “Yes, yes. I heard what you were saying. And I can’t honestly say I disagree with it. From an intellectual standpoint. But it just doesn’t _feel_ right. There has to be a better way.” He ran a hand through his hair. “If we give in to despair, to pessimism, then _of course_ it’ll seem like there’re no other options. But I just…” he sighed. “I can’t disregard killing the entire Great Link just so I can sleep peacefully at night.” He squinched up his face. “Or not sleep, seeing as I’d be dead, as the case may be.” Brow furrowed, he stared blankly into space. “Damn you, Garak,” he groaned out defeatedly. He blindly roamed over to the bunk and sat down.

Garak followed close behind, perching neatly a few handspans away, then hopped up with a gasp before awkwardly adjusting to sit in a different position. 

Julian watched from the corner of his eye. “Got pretty bruised up, going against Worf, didn’t you?”

The tailor nodded sharply. “He is quite the competent fighter. For a Klingon. And not afraid to bodily toss someone into a wall or floor if the occasion suits it.”

Julian rubbed at his temples. “He was trying to stop you from murdering everyone, as I understand it.” He glanced down surreptitiously at Garak’s hands, braced above his knees. They were scraped and swollen. “And I’m assuming you fought back, although he didn’t mention that.”

“No. No, he wouldn’t. Although everyone could discern it based on the state of my hair and clothing, I’m sure.” Garak reached up self-consciously to pat at his slightly disheveled locks.

“You’re _unbelievable,_ ” the doctor muttered. He cleared his throat. “Garak, would you- were you really…” He turned his head. “Were you really willing to die when the Jem’Hadar came after you if you had succeeded? You would give up your life to save everyone else?”

“In an instant,” Garak answered without hesitation. “Although-” He snapped his mouth shut.

Julian turned the rest of his body, lifting one knee up onto the mattress. “Although what?”

The tailor averted his eyes. “Although I don’t know how much the quadrant would be worth saving without one Julian Bashir in it.”

Perplexed, the human reviewed the statement. “Just what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means, my dear doctor, that I am an old, sentimental fool.” Garak stood and walked across the room. He stared blankly at the replicator, which had been turned off, ostensibly to prevent him from calling up a weapon. But the ones in the crew quarters weren’t programmed with that capability anyway. So all it really served to do was prevent him from drinking tea.

Something niggled at the back of Julian’s brain. He squinted, trying to make sense of it. If only he could make sense of _Garak_ , maybe he could get somewhere. He studied the bowed head, the hunched shoulders. 

The Cardassian turned back toward him. “Why are you here, Dr. Bashir? It’s obviously not to patch me up.” He held out his battered hands.

Julian wasn’t sure he remembered anymore. He’d been so angry at first. So hurt. That Garak had the audacity to… to what? To take everyone’s lives into his own hands? To make a rash decision without agreement or authorization?

When he’d learned what happened, his first thought had been absolutely absurd. _How could he end things without saying goodbye?_ That was what plagued him, roiled up his insides. Not that Garak was willing to end his life, but that he hadn’t had one last moment in the man’s presence. What kind of fucked up notion was that?

Garak dropped his hands back to his sides. “I think it’s time for you to go, Doctor. I’m sure there are better things for you to be doing right now. Go see to Worf.”

“You know Worf won’t let me touch him. Not unless he’s got a broken bone.” Julian stood up and crossed over to Garak. He lifted one hand to study the broken skin. “You, however, are confined to quarters. I brought my kit and can take care of this.”

Garak stared at his gray hand cradled in the two tan ones. He knew he should pull it back, even yank it away, but the warmth of the human’s skin was too pleasant, and so seldom experienced. Even so, he found his voice. “Nonsense. My hide is tough and resilient. I’ll be recovered in no time.” He finally found the strength to withdraw, only to tug and not be released. “Doctor.”

“Damn you, Garak,” Julian repeated quietly. His grip tightened. “Did you really try to set up Odo with the owner of the Celestial Café?”

Taken aback, Garak startled. “What? Doctor, I don’t see-”

“You really _are_ a sentimental fool, aren’t you?”

“Really, I don’t see what this has to do with what we were talking about.” And how strange it was that Garak sounded more disconcerted _now_ than when they were discussing warfare and annihilation. 

“I should be mad at you. Furious.” Julian rubbed a thumb over the back of Garak’s hand. “Why aren’t I more upset?”

Eyes cast downward to where they were touching, the Cardassian pressed his lips together. He tried to sound nonchalant. “I could hardly fathom your idealistic Federation sensibilities,” he quipped, but it came out muted. 

They were standing close, as close as they ever did sometimes, but those times they hadn’t been so embroiled in emotion, or in physical contact. 

Julian’s hand felt suddenly, inexplicably warm. A firm resolve settled in his core, tightened his spine. He’d been denied so long, and now here he was, with something previously unobtainable within his reach, in fact, literally within his grasp… “I’m not going to pretend I understand everything about you, Garak. And I can’t act like what you did today was… something I condone. But I can’t hold it against you, either.”

Garak tilted his head. The flavor of the air had changed, as had the nature of their conversation. He wasn’t sure when, or how, but something was different. Part of him wanted that. Craved it. “There’s a great many things you should hold against me, Doctor,” he asserted. “Many of them rightfully so.” He could be referring to his countless transgressions. He could be talking about the human’s young and nubile body. Both notions were equally attractive, if for different reasons.

When their eyes met this time, they locked and held. Julian licked his lips. Garak’s eyes flicked down, then back up. As much as he delighted in the discomfort of others, he absolutely loathed suspense when it came to his own circumstances. It had been a hell of a day, and he had no patience or inhibitions left. Indeed, that had all been thrown out the airlock the moment he’d broken into the conduits. He broke the silence. “Is there something _else_ , Doctor?”

“Take off your shirt.”

Garak’s brows shot up. “Pardon me?”

Julian kept hold of Garak with one hand, but used the other to motion at the Cardassian’s torso. “You’re standing crookedly. You’re obviously hurt much worse than you’re letting on. Let me take a look and make sure you haven’t broken any ribs.” He daringly reached for a seam on the tunic, certain there was a hidden clasp or zipper behind it. 

This time Garak succeeded in ripping his hand away. He stepped back. “I don’t see why it matters,” he argued. “If I had succeeded, I’d be dead right now. By that metric, I’m infinitely better off.”

Julian threw his hands up. “Must you argue with _everything_ I say?”

Garak looked affronted. “Of course, Doctor. Nothing is ever as simple as you insist on making it. Take _this,_ for instance. Right now. I just tried to exterminate every living creature within a million kilometers, and yet you insist on healing the wounds that I so rightfully earned when I was thwarted. All you see is a patient. When in reality I am a war criminal.”

“That’s not how it _works_ with the Federation, Garak. You’re not guilty until you’ve been judged so through a fair and impartial trial. And even then, the goal is to _rehabilitate,_ not punish you. And until that happens, you are simply one more humanoid on this crew. Of which I am the doctor. So now. Please. Remove. Your shirt.”

Garak wasn’t sure where he’d gone wrong. Or right. The guileless young human was supposed to hate him. To hold him responsible for his actions. 

At the very least, he expected pity. And yet, here Julian was, fire in his eyes and grace in his heart. 

Slowly, Garak reached up and undid the clasp beneath his neckline. The doctor’s shoulders sagged in relief immediately. The zipper was next, and he drew it all the way down and let the flap fall open. 

Julian’s eyes tracked every movement, and they seemed to hold more than the stoic interest of an attending physician. As Garak opened the tunic, his brow furrowed. “Where is your-- Oh, I see. You sewed in a thermal lining. That’s quite clever, actually.”

Garak drew the garment off, and he could feel his scales shrivel on contact with the cooler air. But he draped it over his arm and stood there bare-chested, daring the human to make the next move.

Julian’s concern was immediately piqued. There were large, blackish bruises spreading over one side of Garak’s torso, and several smaller ones on the arms. He sucked in his breath. It looked painful as hell. How the Cardassian was even upright at all was unfathomable. And not only standing but eyeing him evenly, with a hint of challenge, daring him to say something. Or maybe to touch? He wanted to touch. He wanted to soothe all of the wounds away, and then cover all of the skin again, with a less gentle approach. 

He knew, somewhere deep inside, that his body was still pumping adrenaline from earlier. From hearing about what Garak had been caught doing, and then confronting him about it. Rationally, he knew that part of the surge he was feeling in his blood was simply a vestige of an evolutionary adaptation, one that had a history of spurring humans into making rash _physical_ decisions rather than calm, cerebral ones. The rush was a heady feeling, and one that he pursued incessantly during debates with the tailor. Invigorating. Enthralling. Addictive.

Trying and failing to school his expression, Julian spun around and reached for his medkit. Garak remained silent while he pulled out the tricorder and switched the settings to Cardassian. The doctor turned back and studiously focused on the darkened wounds covering the front and side of Garak’s right flank. He ran the device back and forth, up and down, scanning the entirety of the wound. “No broken bones,” he proclaimed gratefully. “Just subdermal bleeding.” He risked a glance upward. “It looks as though you’re as tough as you claim.”

The tricorder was swapped for the regenerator, which had to be recalibrated as well. “Arm up.”

Garak raised his arm, but rather than holding it out awkwardly to his side, he set his hand on Julian’s shoulder, as if to brace himself. Rather than watch the work being done on his side, he observed the doctor. 

Julian eased the regenerator in measured strokes over skin and scales, watching them fade from charcoal to slate. A few of the thicker scutes towards the top took on a yellowish hue, and the ones lower down on Garak’s waist and dipping beneath his trousers flushed turquoise. It reminded him disconcertingly of Terran lizards during mating season. The hand on his shoulder tightened, and he couldn’t help picturing the perfectly-manicured hands as something distinctly more reptilian, with claws.

“There. All better,” he diagnosed upon finishing. 

“Yes, that is a marked improvement,” Garak agreed. Gambling more than his dignity, he glanced down. “I suppose you’d like to examine the rest of me as well.”

Julian dropped the regenerator. “Um, um yes.” He picked it back up. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

Garak set aside his shirt, then undid the fasteners for his waistband, which he lowered primly and stepped out of. Garbed in nothing more than a pair of skin-tight shorts, he regarded the doctor frankly.

Julian felt like something was constricting his chest so that he couldn’t get a full draught of air. Garak was much more fit and muscular than his tailored ensembles would lead one to believe. All part of the deception, he supposed. The ridges down his sides tapered off before reaching his knees, leaving much of his bottom half mostly smooth except for some intriguing pebbling here and there. And a faint outline of ornamental sculpting beneath the remaining fabric. He dragged his eyes away to focus on the lower thighs and calves.

“I don’t see any lacerations or contusions,” he commented. 

“No, Doctor. I fear most of the damage occurred when I was flung onto my back. Besides getting the wind knocked out of me, my shoulders and rear took the brunt of the fall.”

“Your-- oh.” Garak wanted him to look at his… rear?

“I _would_ appreciate being able to sit down again. Especially if I’m going to be spending the foreseeable future in a holding cell.”

Julian sobered instantly. The image of Garak on a cot, alone behind a forcefield, was dismaying. “Well, uh, let’s get a look at it then,” he muttered quietly.

Garak rounded about. His shoulder blades were slightly discolored, but not enough to even warrant a quick healing; they’d be fine on their own. Which left the lower region. 

“Do you want to… or do you want me to…?” He trailed off. He normally wasn’t so bashful with his patients, but this was _Garak_ he was talking to. 

The Cardassian glanced over his shoulder, then hooked his fingers in his waistband on just one side to reveal a plump, gray expanse. It was indeed discolored, mottled and dark. Julian contemplated how to tackle the treatment. He’d either have to kneel down on the floor, or have Garak bend over. He suddenly wished someone else was doing the healing instead of him. 

“Is something wrong, Doctor?” 

If only he was in the infirmary, he could-- oh. “I need you on the bed,” he replied. “To make sure I get everything.”

Garak gazed dubiously in the direction of the bunk. 

“The angle will be more comfortable for you and more accessible for me,” Julian clarified. Although it sounded horribly similar to the line he’d used on an ensign the previous year in a situation that had nothing to do with doctoring.

They relocated. Garak laid down on the mattress, his head turned away. This left Julian the task of removing the underwear. He cautiously slid them down, just far enough to reveal the markings, but when he released the elastic, it tightened into the flesh and appeared to cut off circulation. So he apologized and pulled them all the way over the buttocks before letting go this time. 

He tried to ignore the fact that Garak was effectively naked, on a bed, in front of him now, and concentrated on taking care of the wound. As soon as the last swipe was complete, he set down the device and reaffixed the tailor’s undergarment. He just barely refrained from patting one arse cheek in confirmation. “There,” he said quietly. “I think you can manage now.”

Garak rolled over and sat up. Julian scooted over. Garak moved next to him and dangled his legs over the side once again. 

They spoke at the same time. 

“Doctor-”

“Garak-”

Julian shook his head emphatically. “You go first.”

“Would you mind terribly looking at my neck and arm as well?”

The doctor shook his head. “They’re fine, Garak. Everything is superficial. Your tough Cardassian skin seems to have served you well.”

The tailor huffed. He was caught somewhere between relief and exasperation. He was too old for this. Too jaded. 

And too far gone to put a stop to it.

“Thank you for your kind attentiveness,” he expressed, patting Julian’s thigh. “I suppose it’s time for you to leave now, having rendered your assistance.” But he made no move to rise, and neither did the human. His hand remained.

“I don’t… don’t have to go,” Julian spoke quietly. “As you said, Worf isn’t going to need me. I could stay a while longer, and we could… talk. If you like.”

Garak frowned. “What about Mr. Odo? As a newly-minted humanoid, surely he needs you.”

“I put him to sleep so that his body could take time to acclimate without causing him more distress. You can’t imagine the pain he’d be going through while his circulatory and digestive systems come online. Not to mention his nervous system. I imagine _everything_ is going to hurt for a while until his brain learns to sort it all out.” It was going to be a rollercoaster ride, that awas for sure. Julian was not looking forward to explaining--and witnessing--bodily processes and frailties to the former Changeling. “I already took inventory on the way here. There really isn’t anything else for me to do.”

Julian made a visual sweep of the man at his side. “You really are lucky. You came out of this remarkably unscathed for losing a battle with a Klingon.”

“Doctor, please! You know Cardassians don’t believe in luck. And I didn’t lose; I forfeited. Do you honestly think I wouldn’t know how to disarm one of those muscle-brained brutes?” Garak nearly groaned. In his rush to defend his image, he’d inadvertently let slip more information than he should have. He withdrew to clasp his hands in his lap.

“Wait. Are you saying you _let_ him stop you?” Julian latched on to that statement with alacrity. Was he just hearing what he wanted to hear? 

Garak groaned internally. Him and his stupid hubris. Of course he could disable a foe in five different ways in less than one minute, but there was no reason to brag about it. Especially when one was still trying to maintain the façade of helpless, exiled tailor. But perhaps that shuttle had already undocked and headed for the wormhole. 

“What I’m _saying_ , Doctor, is that once again you’re simplifying the situation. Life is more than black and white.” 

Julian snorted. “I know. It’s shades of gray. Kind of like _you._ ”

Garak pretended to analyze a thread on his sleeve. “Hmm, yes. That seems accurate.”

“ _And_ you don’t want me to complicate things. I see. Fine.” The human nodded briskly and excused himself to gather his materials and head for the door. “Have a nice day, Garak. Or next couple months. Or, I don’t know, five to fifteen years. I’ll be seeing you.” He sketched a half wave.

“Doctor, wait.” The words were voiced softly but firmly, and carried the weight of the quadrant. 

Julian stopped. Turned around.

Garak rose gracefully, his gaze unwavering despite the faint trembling in his fingers.

Julian was disconcerted by the vulnerability in the tailor’s eyes. It wasn’t often the man let his mask slip. His mind traveled back to 2 years previously, when Garak had been dying from the malfunctioning implant in his brain. He remembered the tears, the raging. The plea for forgiveness.

He crossed the room, feeling like he was traversing vast reaches of space. “Everything you’ve ever done, it’s been for the greater good, hasn’t it? Whether interrogations for the Obsidian Order or using the Federation to undermine Dukat, or remaining on Deep Space Nine when you could have gone anywhere else. It was all for Cardassia. That’s why you wanted forgiveness. Because no matter how many horrible things you did, it was with the best intentions, and you wanted that recognized. To know that _someone_ understood. Am I right?”

Garak blinked. How had this human managed to cut him to the core in a few measly sentences? 

“Do you want that again?” Julian probed. “You want me to forgive you?”

“That’s not the problem,” Garak whispered. “I wouldn’t have done it.”

“What?”

“Oh, I tried my hardest not to think about it, to make myself an instrument of action, and I managed to alter multiple subsystems and bypass security measures, but I never would have been able to enter the final command. Because I kept seeing _you_ , Doctor. Your face haunted me the entire time. I wanted to destroy the planet, _needed_ to. But not with you on it. Never could I end your precious life. _That_ is the tragedy. I’ve fallen victim to sentiment.” He sighed bitterly. “It’s not your forgiveness I need. It’s Cardassia’s.”

Julian floundered. “Garak, I… I don’t know what to say.” He wanted to take the man into his arms, to kiss his torment away. To feel the ridges of Garak’s face under his fingertips and that strong heartbeat against his chest. To erase the past 26 hours and ensure the tailor never joined them on the Defiant in the first place.

“Do you know what the worst part is, Doctor? It’s not that I’m going to jail for a crime I couldn’t commit. It’s that I _deserve_ to go, because I was willing to let this war go on, if only it meant saving the life of one man. You.”

There was no conscious decision. One moment Julian was a handspan away, watching the play of expressions over Garak’s face, the next, he was cradling the Cardassians jaw in his hands and kissing him as if his life depended on it. In a way, it did.

Caught between horror and desire, Garak simultaneously stepped back and pulled Julian closer, throwing them both off balance. They stumbled in a small circle, never breaking apart. When his lips parted on a small moan, Julian’s tongue slipped in to taste him and coax a returning gesture. He complied eagerly, dipping into the human’s hot, sweet mouth, feeling like he was spinning, caught up in a whirlwind. 

They devoured each other hungrily, hands roaming over backs and arms, chests and necks, and crept unsteadily in the direction of the bunk. Even in the midst of their passion, there was a brief play for dominance, instinctually aware that whoever had their back to the bed would be at a disadvantage. Garak knew he’d lost when his calves hit the base and he tumbled backward, only to be caught in Julian’s deceptively strong arms and lowered gently down.

They shuffled and rearranged, lips still meeting and parting before locking tightly together as the doctor straddled the tailor. Julian ground into the hard body beneath him and groaned.

_ <Dr. Bashir, report to the infirmary immediately.> _

They jerked apart. 

In a daze, Julian slapped his comm badge and replied. He looked at the panting, flushed man under him. “Fuck.” He extricated himself from the bunk, straightening his uniform and futilely trying to adjust himself. 

Garak was slower to take action. He lifted from the tangled covers and started to pick up his discarded clothing. 

“I- I have to go,” Julian said apologetically. “I’m sorry, really. I hope I’ll see you again soon. Take care, Garak.” He grabbed his medkit and dashed from the room.

When he reached the infirmary, Captain Sisko and Worf were waiting for him. The captain had his arms crossed, and Worf had his head turned to the side, as if disgusted with his presence.

Lips raw and throbbing, Julian swallowed. “Did you get what you needed?”

Sisko frowned. “We heard everything. I think it’s safe to say that we have enough evidence to present that Garak wouldn’t have gone through with it. Although there will still be consequences for breaking into the systems, damaging the security units, and attacking a Starfleet officer. It’s likely that they’ll let us keep him on Deep Space Nine instead of being sent to a penal colony.” His eyes glinted. “But at no point during his sentence will you be permitted to see him. If he needs medical assistance, he will go to Dr. Girani or Nurse Jabbara. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”


End file.
